The Dress
by roseywine
Summary: A little one-shot where Isobel struggles to choose a dress for Christmas dinner.


**A/N: My contribution to Christmas. Just a little one-shot as I haven't had time to do much else. **

"Are you ready?" asked Richard with a soft knock on the door. He leant against the doorframe with his head inclined, waiting for her response.

"No," she replied with a hint of despair. "I have so many dresses, but not one seems suitable."

"It's only Christmas dinner with a few of the doctors from Ripon," he said. "You'll look fine whatever you wear."

He held his breath as the last comment left his lips, meaning so much more than the word 'fine' would ever allow him to convey. It was as bold as he dared to be, but he felt a little cold at the way she would interpret it as mere male impatience.

"I'm not going," she replied, hot and frustrated. "You can go by yourself."

"Don't be silly," he said, his patience waning. "Let me in and we can find something together."

He could feel her hesitate on the other side of the door, but the lock clicked and it swung open. Isobel stood before him, a high colour in her cheeks, hair tumbling around her face and a rainbow pool of fabric at her feet.

He suppressed a smile.

"Don't laugh at me," she said, raising her chin. "It's alright for the men. As long as you're a step up from the servants, it's acceptable."

"I wish it were as simple as that," he said, taking care not to tread on any of the discarded dresses as he entered her bedroom. There was every colour imaginable, from smoky grey to gold, pastel blue to dazzling jade. "I didn't know you owned so many dresses."

"I don't wear many of them these days. You wouldn't believe it, but I used to go to many a party with Reginald and I've kept every one of them. I suppose dinner at the house rarely calls for dresses like these. Some of them are a little… bright."

He saw her eyes flicker to the photo of her husband on her bedside table, a five or six-year old Matthew in his arms and a blissful smile on his face. She stared for a moment, lost somewhere else until his tender hand on her arm coaxed her back to reality.

He looked at her, giving her elbow a squeeze of encouragement.

"Come on," he said, with a softness in his voice that she had never heard before. "We'll find you something to wear."

The next ten minutes passed in a frenzy of cotton and lace and silk as they picked their way through each and every dress that Isobel owned.

"What about this one?" he asked, holding up a mint green garment, running his hand down the silky sleeve. "It's an unusual colour."

"I don't want to be unusual," she retorted, sifting through a handful of material that merged into one extravagant puddle. "I want to blend in."

He raised an eyebrow, trying not to sigh as he bent down once again.

"I like this," she said, holding a dress of the deepest red by the shoulders, pressing the body against her own.

"It's very pretty," he replied, straightening up, groaning as his back protested against being bent over for so long. "I like that colour on you. You really suit red."

"You must be the first man with such an informed opinion on the colour of my dress," she said, a wicked grin playing on her lips. "Does it bring out my eyes? Match my skin tone? Oh, Richard, I'm joking."

He turned away so that she wouldn't see the heat in his cheeks.

"I'll try it on," she said, her voice a little softer, something changed between them.

* * *

"What do you think?" she asked, opening the door and stepping backwards, gesturing at the dress.

"You look lovely," he said, cautious with his words. He followed her back into the room. "Perfect for the dinner."

"I'm glad," she said with a smile, taking a seat in front of her mirror, tucking loose curls back into pins. "I last wore this back in Manchester. It was at a party a little while after Reginald had died and I was feeling pretty miserable. I was all dressed up, but I just couldn't feel right about it. I remember being so jealous of all the couples."

"That's only natural," said Richard, standing beside her, watching how her fingers worked her hair. She picked out a hairgrip from a dish on the dress table, slipping it into her mouth.

"Not really," she said, winding the hair round her fingers and taking the pin from her mouth. "I wasn't jealous because I missed Reginald – that was a feeling I was used to by then, and I was so numb from it."

"So, what was wrong?" he asked, catching her gaze in the mirror.

She paused.

"I didn't have a man to notice my pretty dress."

Without thinking, he put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the lace of the sleeve in his fingers and the heat of her skin.

"I've noticed it," he said, a tentative, husky tone to his voice.

"I know," she replied, covering his hand with hers.

They stayed like that for a few moments, staring at the picture they made in the mirror.

"And thank you, Richard," she said, breaking her gaze from the mirror and turning to look up at the real him.

"For what?" he asked, spellbound by the feeling of her fingers around his. Her chin was tilted upwards, her lips parted.

"For noticing me."

He leant down, closing the distance between them, feeling her breath on his skin until their lips met in a gentle kiss. He closed his eyes, pulling her closer until her arms were around his neck, holding him just as much as he was holding her, tangling his hands in the soft fabric of her pretty, red dress.


End file.
